


A Sideways Wish

by EvilFuzzy9



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bodyswap, Dick Pics, F/F, F/M, Genderbending, Happy Sex, Other, Parent/Child Incest, Texting, Yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzy9/pseuds/EvilFuzzy9
Summary: Wishes come true all the time. Just rarely in the way the wishmakers intend, as a young man and a teen discover. [body swap, incest, yuri]





	A Sideways Wish

It was a common thing for people to wish on a star. Many did it every night, a meaningless sort of ritual with so little thought of substance that it couldn't even considered spiritual, just a vague act of looking up and the sky and opining that things were not different, or hoping something good would happen.  
  
It was common for people to wish and stars, and only somewhat less common for more than one person to wish on the same star. There were all kinds of different "rules" to how it worked, matters of perspective and little childish notions so puerile that it was a surprise they weren't left behind completely in the cradle.  
  
What was not common was for those wishes to be granted. Purely material scientific models of existence, even the more abstract considerations of string theory or multiple universes, none of those had room for the primitive notion of "wishing", whether on stars or genies or lucky rabbit's feet. But existence could be willful, paradoxical thing.  
  
Regardless of whether it was the act of some conscious higher power, a supernatural agency on the part of the immense, cosmic globs of plasma that drifted in a winding pattern through infinite space, or just a random hiccup in the fabric of being, at least two people, one early September night, found their wishes granted.  
  
Just... not in  _quite_  the way that either one expected.  
  
Sam was a bachelor, young and well off and securely employed, with his own apartment and all the amenities one might expect a young man of the twenty-first century to prioritize. He was pretty well educated, and at least outwardly gave the impression of a serious, hard-working youth. But, like many, he felt trapped in the day to day grind of employment, with all the disillusionment of a single man who spent most his time either working or at home, growing painfully conscious of the unpleasant little things that typically made people in first world countries lament of existence.  
  
He felt trapped in an endless loop of mundanity, and worse still acutely conscious of the passing from youth into adulthood. Sam was an intelligent man, a child of the late twentieth century. He knew you could only be young once, and he had himself observed the ever quickening flow of personal time, life that in youth seemed endlessly long now growing slowly but surely shorter. It was, of course, a bit foolish to dread such things when he WAS still young by every meaningful definition beyond childhood, and fit as a fiddle, too, with generally good health and dietary habits in spite of everything, so that he was as likely as anyone to reach a hundred or older.  
  
But he was at that age most acutely noted by the lonely and intelligent, when a young man began to feel self-conscious of bachelorhood, and too feel regrets, if he had any, about how he had spent his formative years. And Sam had plenty of regrets. He had been studious and driven in school, raised to have a strong work ethic and to believe that a serious, informed effort was the best part of success. He had afforded very little time to goofing off, and while he'd had plenty acquaintances, and most of his peers had said he was likable, after he was out of school and into the workforce he realized that he had very few friends.  
  
There were many reasons to regret the way he'd spent his youth, even if his studious efforts had enabled him to accomplish relatively early success in getting a decent job at a reasonably successful software firm, well enough paid that he could indulge himself when he wanted without worrying too much about his bank account. Material success seemed hollow when you had few real close friends and nothing close to a lover, and with few really good memories to look back on Sam felt a kind of slight, special bitterness.  
  
And looking out his window one night, he saw a star in the sky. While looking at it, Sam wished—as he had often done of late—that he could just have a second chance to enjoy his high school life.  
  
Layla was a highschooler, a pretty and extroverted seventeen year old raised by her widowed mother. She was a vivacious, rebellious specimen of burgeoning womanhood, prone to making trouble and partying. While she never went  _too_  far, being essentially goodnatured beneath her rage against perceived repression by adults and authority figures, and never yet had done anything to willfully hurt another person, she could be trying on the patience of more serious souls.  
  
She didn't like living under her mother's roof. Not because the woman was a bad person: she wasn't. Nor was there any kind of abuse or ill will between them. On some level she did still love her mother very much, but their relationship had grown tense since her father's death, her mother becoming harder and stricter. They'd gotten into more than one argument over the dubious quality of Layla's grades and schoolwork.  
  
In a way, Layla knew that a lot of her mother's changing temper came from the stress of having to deal with the loss of a husband, having to take over as the family breadwinner. Layla understood that was at least somewhat ungrateful of her to resent the time her mom had to spend at work, that her mom could no longer be there at home waiting for her after school with a snack ready, asking how her day had been.  
  
They both struggled with the loss of her father. At least part of Layla's disobedient wild streak was a response to the apparent unfairness of her dad's death, confusion and anger finding their outlets in reckless, irresponsible behavior. She drank and dressed provocatively, often being called to the principal's office for flaunting the dress code with her skimpy, revealing garments. And she had probably slept with a tenth of the guys at her school, too.  
  
Those in particular frustrated Layla's mother, who feared on top of everything else that her daughter would go down a self-destructive path, and as a result she was perhaps harsher with her daughter than she needed to be. Layla resented this, young as she was, willful and stubborn and determined to have fun, refusing to even consider her mom's perspective. She wanted to be independent, to be free of her mother and free to do whatever she wanted with her life and her body.  
  
In short, she was your average rebellious teenager, impulsive and lusty. And when she saw the same star noted by a certain Sam on the other side of town, naturally she thought wistfully of her desire to be an adult free of parental tyranny.  
  
Then she went to bed, even as Sam went to bed in his apartment.  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes, things happen to convince a person that a higher power not only exists, but that this power also has a very twisted sense of humor. For Sam, that moment might have been waking up to find a pair of soft and surprisingly weighty somethings atop her chest.  
  
_Her_  chest. She did not think this wording literally, of course, using instead  _my chest_  in her own mind, but outside of that there was a whole undercurrent of impulse and unthinking, automatic observation.  
  
The brain was like a computer that controlled a deceptively complex machine. Like a computer, it was networked into every corner of its province, sending constant unconscious queries to every nerve ending in the body. The brain was always aware of its members and their spatial orientation to each other,  _proprioception_ , and it was wired as well to receive warnings from any damaged part. If a nerve detected some harmful compromise in bodily integrity, it sent the regulatory signal of  _pain_  to central processing, the brain.  
  
There were countless other ways in which this connection could be illustrated. The brain was woven into the entire body, the nerves like its outstretched fingers, and it was aware of many things that the conscious mind was never told about. The best comparison there would be to call the conscious mind a political figurehead spouting completed rhetoric and carefully workshopped policy, while the unconscious mind was the shadow government that did all the real important decision making.  
  
Of course there was ambiguity. Neurons were small enough for quantum uncertainty to be meaningful, just room for doubt enough such that perfectly mechanistic neurological determinism was reasonably debatable. Consciousness was nearly an abstract sensation, an accumulation of ideas and opinions housed in but not interchangeable with the brain and body. Even if "soul" was not a literal substance, it would certainly seem to be some manner of separate existence.  
  
Especially since Sam woke up as Sam in mind, despite being in a body that was not Sam's, a body with a brain that was not Sam's. Were she of such an inclination, Sam might have latched onto this as objective proof of the existence of something like the popular conception of  _soul_ , that mental existance and identity were in some way separate from the brain, however much they may have depended on it while embodied.  
  
But he was not. He was a programmer, a fairly practical kind of man who did not especially care about such matters. Those were purely philosophical considerations, little concerned with his life and line of work.  
  
So Sam did not think about any of that.  
  
She simply looked down at her chest and saw a pair of nicely developed tits, very round and fresh and perky, and what she could see of them in the cleavage exposed by her night shirt betrayed an attractively generous distribution of freckles. She felt on one level that this was exactly what she expected to see, but on another, higher level of thought she was entirely astonished.  
  
Sam raised a hand and grasped at her newfound bosom through the cloth of a T-shirt emblazoned with a character from a comic she really liked and yet knew that she had personally never read in her life. On one hand she knew the character's entire history and personality, on another she knew that she  _shouldn't_  know anywhere near this much about the character.  
  
Dizzy, Sam looked around her room.  
  
_Her_  room, even though it wasn't hers. It wasn't the bedroom of her apartment, the room she had spent the last couple years imprinting with the patterns of her lifestyle, tastes, and person. It was, for one thing, much more slovenly than her room. It was a damned mess, as if the owner viewed the act of picking up after herself with a special contempt, and it was decorated with posters for bands she'd never listened to and movies she'd never seen.  
  
It was difficult to extricate herself and her self. It was confusing to try and think of the self she knew she had been and ought to be, and the self she now was and felt she'd always been. Fortunately Sam was not too especially attached to male gender, or this could have been a most traumatic experience. In fact, she had more than once imagined what it would be like to be a woman, and fantasized that it would be an easier or more enjoyable life than what she knew as a man.  
  
Perhaps not a politically correct notion, perhaps something that would have earned her a lot of flak from certain circles, and definitely not an idea to express around people with strong opinions or sensitive temperaments. But it was what she had thought, more than once.  
  
Men were expected to initiate courtship, to be the ones making the first step to start a romance. Men were hunters who had to put themselves in constant danger of rejection, whether they hoped for a one night stand or a lasting relationship needing to make the effort to approach their prospective, desired partners. Men were dependent on the acceptance of women, had to work up the courage and expose themselves to potential humiliation.  
  
Even in this day and age, that was still the way it seemed to work most times out of ten. The man had to be the one initiating it, the one sticking his neck out, the one paying for the date and holding the door open. Except when the woman found that offensive, but people rarely made clear all their opinions and inclinations, in natural human self-centeredness often assuming that the way they thought was the way everyone should think. Some people thought it rude to do those things, others thought it rude not to, and while some of this could perhaps be divined from other aspects of an individual's observable personality and apparent disposition, this was not remotely exact. In the end you essentially had to guess, depending on unreliable stereotypes and personally observed patterns, making a stab in the dark at a basic level. And yet if you guessed wrong,  _you_  were the bad guy.  
  
Women, on the other hand, didn't need to go out of their way. Not, at least, in the same sense as men did. Obviously there was a world of effort on their part which men rarely went to, concerns about presentation, about how to attract the attention of a desired male without also drawing in all of the unwanted specimens. The stereotype was that women (or popularly attractive ones, at least) were always having to turn down dates and deal with rude or unwanted flirtations. And there were other, far less savory extensions. Sam wasn't ignorant to that. But still, she felt like having to fend off advances would be better than having to be the one making them. Better to be the employer sifting through applicants, it seemed to her, than the job seeker submitting their resume to every place that was hiring. Easier to wait for "true love" than to exhaust yourself in heart, mind, and soul just to be burned and shredded by repeated rejections.  
  
Not that she'd been unattractive as a man, or without social grace, but the serious hard worker tended not to attract very much flirtation, at least not in high school, not when all the beautiful and desirable people were interested in partying. But this was beside the point, perhaps. Sam was finding it hard to focus on such thoughts with her hands full of breasts, only a fine layer of threadbare old cotton between her skin and her skin. She was honestly enraptured by the feel of her bosom, the swell of her mammaries. It wasn't the first time she'd touched breasts, not in either context of her self, as a man or as a teenage girl.  
  
It was novel, though, at least for Sam. To touch breasts that were her own, breasts that were of goodly size—maybe C-cups, at least—and still growing. To squeeze them and feel the sensation both in her hands and in her bosom, to perceive from both sides how it felt to fondle breasts and for her breasts to be fondled. A part of her had long assumed it was only a minor stimulation, something played up in porn for male , at least for this body, it seemed to be something rather more than just a little arousing.  
  
That is to say: SHIT, but it felt fucking _ **good!**_  
  
Sam panted, and without thinking she slipped up her pajama shirt, throwing it over her head. She stared down at her naked chest, and again she was amazed to behold it. Never before had she seen a pair of breasts from quite this angle, in quite this way, with the familiarity of something that was a part of her body, an extension of who she was, her own and no other's.  
  
A soft moan escaped her lips. She felt a shiver go down her spine, and a perceptible moist patch grew in the crotch of her underwear. Biting her lip, Sam started wriggling out of her pants and stretched an arm out to the drawer of the bedside table. Without trouble, and without having to think about it, she found Layla's favorite dildo lying within.  
  
She took it out, and with her free hand she yanked down her underwear, baring a plump and well-used snatch. The insides were slightly worn and off-pink, and it could not be called especially tight, but the heat it gave off was astounding, and copious moisture was drooling down onto her bedsheets.  
  
Achingly Sam once more grabbed one of her breasts. She squeezed it greedily, molesting herself with reckless abandon. It mashed in her grip, rolling under her palm with a sublime sort of softness, cushiony and warm and smooth. She brought the tip of the dildo unthinkingly to her lips, chafing her nipple and arching her back.  
  
She stared at the dildo as her breathing grew more lusty and ragged, her entire body shivering with jolts of pleasure from unreasonably sensitive breasts. It was a very large dildo, and one of formidable, indimidating appearance. Half of it was ribbed, the other half studded, the whole thing massively long and awesomely thick. It was an enormous, glossy, careworn piece that betrayed its owner's fondness in the grooves ground into the handle by tightly gripping fingers.  
  
It was a magnificent thing, she thought. It aroused such a deep, animal instinct within her that before she knew what was happening her tongue had lolled out and curled itself around the tip of the dildo. She licked it lewdly, hungrily, slavishly, enthralled by the great, phallic thing and by memories not her own of countless nights of pleasure brought by its rigid and inexhaustible girth.  
  
Cock was good in its own way, but this thing was  _hers_ , and the only smell upon it was her, the fragrance of her sex, her flesh, her young and almost womanly body. It smelled delicious, and the taste as well... Sam moaned, and more furiously still she groped at her breast, kneading it so viciously that she was sure to leave a stark, crimson mark of her hand tattooed upon the skin. She didn't care.  
  
Moaning louder, bucking her hips and feeling her cunt throb with gleeful anticipation, Sam brought down her mouth, running her tongue further over the thick, intimidating shaft. She couldn't get enough of that taste, that elusive taste of her owned drenched cunt soaked into this dildo by hundreds of furious masturbation sessions. Whoever had called this body home before her had been a true pervert, a really horny and exuberant sort of girl.  
  
It was rubbing off on her very quickly. The muscle memory of reckless sex and wild parties were staining Sam in the colors of Layla, Layla,  _Layla_.  
  
The name bounced about inside her head. The identity of who this girl had been before Sam shoved her out, before Sam found herself inhabiting this body instead. She felt who Layla had been. She knew who Layla was, knew more intimately than anyone could learn by natural methods. This was Layla's brain through which her thoughts now ran, and with every other pulse of neural activity she stumbled across a dozen new patterns and connections.  
  
Memory, behavior, personality, feelings, thoughts, and beliefs. She was tripping over these things every time she tried to think for herself, her identity fusing itself to that of Layla. "Sam" was not erased, no; the core and essence of that person remained, the memories and beliefs of her original self still  _there_  in something separate from the brain, something immaterial and indefinable but oh-so-very important.  
  
But "Layla" sucked on the tip of the dildo. "Layla" fondled her breasts and bucked her hips and rolled her eyes in their sockets. "Sam" was only half controlling these actions, "Sam" only one part of this new person, this new identity. Patterns and dispositions overlapped, sometimes crossing and sometimes clashing, sometimes forging new patterns through untouched regions. Each imprinted on the other, complementing the existence of self.  
  
Who was she, now? Who was it that took the dildo out of her mouth, who rose from the bed and walked over to stand naked in front of a full length mirror? Was it Sam who stared at that auburn hair, that pretty freckled face, those curvy hips and generous tits betraying a promise of still greater mass and breadth? Was it Layla who rubbed the dildo lewdly around her breasts, fingering her pussy and pressing the toy's tip against her nipples, into her cleavage, around the heaving mounds of her tits?  
  
She could no longer say. Part of her wanted to say she was still  _Sam_. If not in identity, if not in the sole personality and essence of who she had once been, then in name at least, for it was a handy name, conveniently unisex and applicable to both genders. But she wasn't Sam, that name didn't fit her anymore, it wasn't how people would know her. Sam she was only partly now, even in mind.  
  
_Layla_  fit this body so much better.  
  
She was Layla now. A new Layla, one with experience beyond herself, one with higher learning and real world experience and a very deeply abiding desire to enjoy herself, to make up for wasted years the first time around. She was a Layla attracted to women due to her once-male mind, and also due to experimentations of her own female body. A Layla who wouldn't mind doing it with a guy, perhaps, just to see what it was like—just to see if this body's memories were accurate and reliable in regard to the fun and exhilaration of a good, hard bang.  
  
Layla grinned crookedly, thrusting the dildo between her breasts, pretending to give a titfuck to some very lucky bastard. Her bosom was only barely big enough for that, but that still bespoke a most ample endowment. She fingered her pussy at the same time, her legs spread, leering at her seemingly perfect teen bod in the mirror. She swiveled her hips curiously and thrust out her backside, showing its fine and twerkable curve. She had a goodly booty, firm and taut, but also with a generosity and volume and  _bounce_.  
  
Layla moaned louder still, and taking the dildo away from her breasts she braced herself for penetration. She gripped the hilt with both hands, and shaking more than a little she lined it up with her cunt. Her head was swimming, her skin fairly slick with sweat by now, her breasts heaving with shuddering breaths of anticipation. Her heart raced in her bosom, and her fingers perfectly matched the grooves in the handle.  
  
Without further ado, Layla pulled the dildo up into her cunt, shoving it into herself without any more hesitation.  
  
Her world exploded into pleasure, and she  _screamed_.  
  
She could not think. She could not perceive. All that was her person seemed to kindle in a blaze of the most agonizing wonder, a world of pleasure she could never have known before taking residence in this body. Layla gasped and moaned loudly, lewdly, barely able to even stay standing as the immense, unyielding dildo was thrust deeper into her cunt by her own two hands.  
  
In the mirror she saw an attractive, freckled face twist into an expression of pleasure so base and shameful that its merest sight thrilled her as much as any physical stimulation. That was  _her_  face,  _she_  was the one making that expression. It was so magnificently obscene. Her bosom heaved, rising and falling generously with her every breath. Tits rocked and quaked subtly from the impacts of her dildo, her thrusting.  
  
Layla cried aloud once and twice and thrice and on, uncaring and unthinking of anyone that might hear. She almost did not care if anyone heard. Indeed, the idea that someone might perceive her lusty, pleasurable cries filled her with as great an excitement as the plastic cock facsimile she stuffed up her sex. Bucking her hips and squeezing her thighs eagerly together, she fantasized about who might hear her.  
  
Dimly she noted recollections from the first Layla of a mother.  _Her_  mother? Maybe. But the impression Layla got, fueled much by the original Sam's tastes and perceptions, was that whoever this woman, she was HOT. She couldn't get a clear mental image, but she had impressions, flashes of general figure and complexion.  
  
Layla moaned, thinking of her mother. Her eyes rolled slightly upward, flickering to the roof as more frequent and powerful waves of pleasure rolled through her body. Her breathing shuddered, and her spine tingled. She was getting the hang of this dildo... she could manipulate the thing with just one hand, now. And with the other hand freed, she busied it molesting one of her plump and tender teats.  
  
"Mom..." she groaned, tugging from her memory the impression of a bust that certainly might have nourished the rack on her own curvy teen frame, of hips that looked wide enough to bear countless children, an ass vast and bouncy that could be scarcely contained in tight black pants or ostensibly modest skirts. "Shit, mom, you're so...! Fuck... Fuck! FUCK! Mom, I want to...!"  
  
Absorbed as was Layla-nee-Sam in her lustful imaginings of an honest to goodness MILF living under this very roof, and as loud as her masturbation induced vocalizations were, she did not hear the comparatively quiet  _thup thup_  sound of footsteps in the hall, the squeak of a hand grasping and twisting her doorknob, or even the creaking groan of her bedroom door being swung open.  
  
She was obsessed with the sight of her body in that mirror, and with the pleasure she was making herself feel. She did not care about anything but this in that moment. Not even the sound of an impatient, frustrated lecture dying on a woman's lips could tear Layla away from her narcissistic leering. Yet the quiet gasp, the almost imperceptible sound of a hand covering a mouth, these seemed deafeningly loud, or far else far more important, and Layla turned her head to look. Only when she saw her mother standing in the door did she remember the woman's full beauty.  
  
Did she remember their relationship.  
  
Layla had once greatly admired her mom. Sara was by all accounts a gorgeous woman, if not quite possessed of the talents or connections to leverage those looks in any kind of specially profitable career. Voluptuous and deceptively youthful of visage, with a smooth complexion and glossy auburn hair a shade redder than her daughter's, it would have been easy to think that Sara was still only in her early thirties.  
  
It was clear at once where Layla got her figure. Looking at Sara was like getting a preview of how she would look once she had reached full maturity, and Layla—with the benefit of Sam's  _otherness_  finding a new perspective—discovered that she liked what she saw.  
  
Her mom's tits were fairly gigantic. Some of Layla's friends had joked about it, while a few others expressed open jealousy of Sara's figure. A third of the boys she'd dated had, at least once, outright goggled upon their first sight of her mother. Layla was used to it. Her mom's breasts had always been this large, so big that she knew her mom needed to get her bras custom made. It wasn't something she'd taken any special note of since her first steps into puberty, when her breasts had first begun to blossom and her mom had kindly explained that the changes she went through were perfectly natural, but now...  
  
The Sam who dwelt in Layla's body looked on her mom with fresh eyes, and even as she drank in the feelings and memories and opinions tattooed into this physical being, she felt the stirrings of lust. Sara was dressed lightly, though not indecently, not in the flashy, slutty,  _'liberated'_  fashion Layla preferred. But she was wearing a gown only, a glorified night shirt that did not go very far down at all. The top buttons were undone more for necessity than any desire to show off, Sara's chest simply too expansive to be otherwise accommodated. It did not show as much of her cleavage as Layla's pajama's had, but somehow it seemed even more lewd.  
  
Once, Layla had admired her mother. She used to think her mom was the most beautiful person in the world, and even in her early teens she had still silently, alternately envied and admired the woman's superlative figure. It was only when she stumbled across an old, rather trashy sort of porn magazine at a friend's house and saw her mother on the cover that Layla felt the first stabs of rebellion. It was no small portion of the first impetus for her to reject her mom's now-seemingly hypocritical teachings on decency and propriety. She clung to that discovery as a last weapon against her mother, with unusual restraint keeping the knowledge of its existence in reserve.  
  
But she still thought her mom was unfairly good looking, for all the confusion and resentment which now curdled between them, and she longed bitterly for the day when her body would reach or even surpass the milestone that was her mother. She knew that she would, with the same certainty she felt in that instant, looking at her mom with a hand on one tit and another shoving her favorite dildo up to the hilt in her cunt, that she was about to come.  
  
She did not have any wit left to consider the niceties or subtle implications of how the sight of her mother, present and looking at her in surprise and mortification and something else that the old Layla could not have identified, made her come. Even if she had, the brain of Layla would have just attributed this to the soul of Sam and neatly skated over any and all damningly suggestive precedent and evidence to the contrary.  
  
But Layla-nee-Sam looked at Sara. She looked as she felt the rush of orgasm, the blind swell of release gushing from every fiber of her being as she came, as she squirted her arousal out around the sides of her dildo, nectar spurting from her pussy and dousing her thighs as her body went beautifully, euphorically numb.  
  
Sara stared at her daughter. Her slightly less noticeably freckled cheeks grew pink, and she took a seemingly reluctant step back, gazing fixedly at Layla's nude form. Wide-eyed and deathly silent she looked and clearly tried to think, to figure out something to do or say in response to this sudden and questionably welcome encounter.  
  
_Questionably welcome_. With the perception of two people Layla detected the difference between this and  _unwelcome_  in the way her mom bit her lip, how she squirmed infinitesimally and rubbed her thighs anxiously together.  
  
Layla realized that her mom was getting aroused. Sam had at least enough experience to know the signs, and Layla's brain—now freed of its original owner's nigh tyrranical obstinacy on this subject—was free to make the obvious connections.  
  
She saw the tenting of her mom's nipples in the gown's breast, the salacious swell of those exceedingly magnificent mammaries. She saw the trickle of moisture between Sara's legs, the flush of Sara's cheeks, the unthinking intensity of Sara's gaze, and the simple fact that her mom was not yet crying out in shock, anger, or distaste.  
  
It was not Sam alone who felt pleased by this. Layla's lower brain stirred her loins back to livelihood painfully shortly after her orgasm, and despite a sharply lingering vaginal tenderness she felt herself grow horny anew. Layla raked her eyes up and down her mom's body.  
  
With a grin, she then removed the dildo and suggestively brandished it.  
  
Somehow this just felt  _right._  
  
"Hey, mom," she said with both Sam's smooth, adult confidence and Layla's lusty, vigorous sensuality. "You look nice today."  
  
Sara stared uncomprehendingly. Or was it comprehension fettered by disbelief? From her expression it might have been either one.  
  
"L-Layla," she said weakly, stammering. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
She clearly tried to sound disapproving and authoritative, but it was a poor job. Her lack of conviction was immediately apparent, the confusion of a mind torn by doubt and guilt and shameful but undeniable longing.  
  
"Masturbating," was Layla's cheeky, husky response. "What else do you think it could be?"  
  
Sara reddened at this address, at once galled by the sarcasm and exhilarated by the bluntness with which her daughter said this. Her body quivered, and she clearly felt a tad faint as her loins warmed further still.  
  
Playfully, Layla raised the slick, arousal-drenched dildo to her lips. She made a show of inhaling the smell of her cunt and her orgasm, and with a suggestive wink slipped out her tongue to curl it for a second time this morning around the tip. She heard a sharp, shuddering gasp come from her mom as she began to earnestly lick and slurp the dildo. Opening her mouth wide, rolling her hips showily this way and that, grasping and theatrically kneading one of her goodly, pillowy breasts, Layla took the dildo into her mouth and mimed giving a most enthusiastic blowjob.  
  
She looked directly at her mother as she did this, for a moment leering and envisioning how the older woman would look under her gown. She pinched a nipple and made herself convulse and, gasping into the ersatz erection, Layla rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks, mimicking the recollected images of her mom in that porn magazine.  
  
In Sara's eyes there was a glimmer of something like understanding.  
  
She was either a very intelligent or a very paranoid woman, to make the connection with so little proof.  
  
"You know..." she said slowly, blushing and fidgeting. "You know about my...  _past career_ , don't you? That's why you're doing this."  
  
Layla took the dildo out of her mouth, and she did so in a manner that made it seem like she was loath to do so and greatly begrudged any moment not spent sucking on it. Despite this, she took several long and ponderous seconds to say anything in reply to Sara's words, in the interim simply giving the woman a very good go at a mysteriously knowing Mona Lisa smirk. Only after it felt like a minute or two had passed did she finally speak.  
  
"I know you were a porn star, if that's what you mean," she said baldly. Sara winced and put a hand to her chest, appearing both relieved and embarrassed. It was at once a rush of shame and a great weight off her chest. "And, yeah, obviously that's why I'm doing all this." Layla licked the dildo's tip with only marginally feigned relish. "It's practice. I wanna follow in your footsteps."  
  
It was a facetious remark, more sarcasm than anything. Sara was somewhat bemused. Her daughter had never been an especially sarcastic person before, although she'd always had a strange sense of humor. But she shrugged it off as nothing. It  _had_  been a long time since they were very close...  
  
"It was just—" Sara began.  
  
"—just for the money, you didn't plan to do it, you regret doing it and wish you hadn't, and you don't want me to go that direction with my life?"  
  
Sara blushed, but she also smiled, and this time there was a glitter of humor in her eyes. It seemed she was relaxing, starting to accept this, to accept her own appreciation for it. There was a hint of lust in the aspect of her face, an underlying hunger growing beneath her poise and posture. She veritably leered at her daughter when next she spoke.  
  
"Wrong on all points," she said with no small degree of cheek. "It was for fun, it'd been my life goal, I don't regret an instant, and I'd love to see you on the pages of some cheap, sleazy, third rate, under-the-counter rag."  
  
It wasn't false, but it wasn't entirely true. Layla could tell as much from her mom's tone and expression. Part of it was teasing, a playful joking that had not occured between the two of them in far too many years.  
  
It was strange. Although she should have felt detached from all of this, being merely a stranger entangled in the patterns of this body's original owner, Layla-nee-Sam felt a very deep and profound sort of pleasure at her mother's words. Only some of it was sexual.  
  
"You look hot, mom," she said deliberately, pausing just long enough for these words to produce a blush and a look of shamefaced gladness, before adding with a sly lilt: "You should take that thing off."  
  
She nodded to the gown which scantly adorned her mother's unnecessarily curvaceous form. Sara squirmed, and while there was a brief impression of second-guessing, like she had suddenly realized the tone and direction of this conversation and the utter surreality of their situation, it was soon passed.  
  
Sara smiled, her face very red. Her breathing was slow, sultry, and savory. Idly she moved a hand over her breast, not squeezing or gripping but clearly still half-consciously stimulating, and her other hand crawled down her side, following the curve of her waist flowing out into her hips until her fingers reached the hem of the gown, which went only halfway down her thighs.  
  
"You're being very naughty, Layla," she told her daughter. "I wanted you to have better prospects than I had. Ever since your father's death... well, I've worried you would go the same way I went. But I guess it was futile." Her smile widened into a truly saucy grin. "No daughter of mine could ever be anything else."  
  
"And just what are you suggesting I  _am_ , mom?" Layla asked teasingly, running the dildo over her body in a lazy fashion, tracing all of her curves and tastiest features.  
  
"A modern, liberated woman. If I wanted to be polite."  
  
"Don't be. I wanna hear you say it plainly."  
  
Sara chuckled.  
  
"A slut, then."  
  
Layla matched her mother's grin and stepped forward, swaying her hips, showing off her body with a perfect, sensual confidence.  
  
"Oho. I'm a slut, am I?" she said wryly.  
  
"You are," Sara answered. "You're a slut. Not that there isn't anything wrong with that."  
  
"Hah," Layla laughed, catching the barb. "But how about you, mom? If you being my mom makes it sure I'd be a slut, then what does that make you?"  
  
"Do you even have to ask?" Sara purred. "Of course I'm a slut, just the same as you. I can't possibly be anything else when I want so dearly to..." She leered more hungrily than ever at Layla. "...well, when the sight of my own daughter's body gets me  _so horny_."  
  
Clearly thrilling in the hot, fiery rush of this admission, Sara flipped up the front of her gown. With remarkable deftness she slipped the garment off, discarding it fluidly. She obviously had much practice.  
  
"You're right," Layla said, ogling her mother, ogling this strange and beautiful woman who had given birth to the body that was now hers. "You couldn't be anything else."  
  
Striding forward, Layla crossed the distance between them in a second, and she raised up her dildo, still moist, presenting the tip of it on level with her mom's mouth. She grinned, inhaling the smell of her own arousal as well as the smell of her mom's body. Without pausing to ask permission, she pressed the dildo to her mom's lips and grabbed at one of her mom's great, creamy, milk-laden tits.  
  
Sara opened her mouth wide, and effortlessly she took the dildo inside her mouth. Layla felt a shiver of delight at the look the woman gave her, that lewdly confident expression so contrary to how their relationship had been of late. Was this why her mom had been so strict, so against her skimpy clothes and licentious behavior? Was it because her mom was attracted to her, because her body turned her mom on and her mom didn't want to admit it?  
  
If that was the case, then it certainly explained why Sara was now so suddenly agreeable and compliant. Lust was a powerful thing, and once accepted it could wash away all else, at least for the duration of a good, quick fuck.  
  
Layla watched her mom suck on the dildo, and she fondled her tits with no small degree of mingled awe and appreciation. Sara's melons were huge, DD at the very least, and they matched perfectly to the rest of her curvy, motherly body. A part of Layla felt perversely amazed when she played with Sara's nipple and saw no milk come out. From the volume alone she'd have thought these tits to be first class lactation machines, but it seemed they were dry.  
  
Somehow that was surprising.  
  
Sara slurped lewdly, noisily on the dildo. With eager hands she grabbed one of Layla's breasts and one of her buttocks, and zealously, skillfully she kneaded them both alike. Layla groaned at these ministrations and the sight of her mother, and she ground her ass against the groping hand and invitingly puffed out her bosom.  
  
"Damn, mom... you aren't ashamed at all, are you?" Layla said. "That you're molesting your daughter. Shit!" she hissed at a sudden jolt of pleasure. "Ohhh, damn. You're good at this."  
  
Sara winked and puffed out her cheeks, before depressing them with a powerful sucking motion, sealing her lips like glue to the dildo's shaft. She smacked and slurped and groped more tightly, more deeply, holding her daughter's body close and moving toward her bed. Layla let Sara lead her, and Sam delighted in all the sensations going through her, and in Sara's salacious beauty.  
  
Her mom laid her out on the bed. Layla felt the mattress lower beneath her, and she heard it creak in protest when Sara joined her on the bed a moment later. The dildo was slick with much saliva, cleaned of Layla's arousal only to be doused with her mother's drool. Layla grinned and sandwiched the dildo between her thighs, holding it up straight with one side of the shaft rubbing against her cunt.  
  
Sara plunged herself down, seeing and feeling the ersatz erection. With astounding fervor she impaled her sex on the rod, gasping as it pierced her, moaning as it rose up into her core. Her bosom leaped once, twice with the motion of her body, and appeared to wobble ponderously a few times more afterward. Sara moaned as the dildo filled her up, and she stared glassily into her daughter's eyes, ruddy cheeks ablaze.  
  
Layla kissed Sara. She grabbed her by the chin and pulled her face down onto her own, guiding their lips aggressively together. Sara purred and groaned into her mouth, and plump lips parted in an unspoken but obvious invitation. Layla thrust her tongue into her mother, therefore, and Sam reveled within her at the taste of Sara's mouth. She explored the woman's oral cavern, plumbing it with perfect enthusiasm.  
  
Sara ground her hips, rubbing herself tortuously on the dildo, pushing its length hither and thither within her cunt. Moans and whines escaped her, even though her lips were quite tightly welded to her daughter's, and she mashed her corpulent, voluminous tits down upon her Layla's little less generous bust. Nipples sent jolts of pleasure through her as they were rubbed against smooth skin.  
  
Layla felt her clit throb, and her pussy burned from the heat of Sara's loins. Her breasts were squashed lewdly and enjoyably beneath her mother's, their nipples brushing more than once and making the pair of them writhe in the stimulation of touch. Her body was wonderful. She felt so erotic, so happy, so horny. Sam imagined how she must look at that moment, how gorgeously obscene the scene of their incestuous lovemaking must have been.  
  
And she truly did think of it as incestuous. She couldn't help seeing this woman as her own mother, couldn't help being dyed and tattooed with the identity of  _Layla_. She thought of herself as Layla as often as not, now. Layla she was, and Sam just a notion, just a passing fancy of what might once have been. Sam didn't feel quite real anymore, not to the same extent as Layla. Sam was still there, but it was a detached presence, something out-of-place and therefore cordoned off.  
  
She felt like a slave to this lewd, lustful body. She felt powerless to resist any of the impulsive acts it might conceive. Unless she was adding to the obscenity, contributing to the pervertedness of imagination, she was just a passenger, a backseat driver making occasional suggestions. That was how it felt, at least, even if the reality was otherwise. It was a dreamlike state somewhere between trance and lucidity, somehow unreal despite all empirical evidence to the contrary.  
  
She smiled and kissed her mother more deeply, reached up and groped her, and moaned into her mouth as Sara fingered her in turn. It was heavenly, this carnival of sin. It didn't feel the least bit wrong, save for in that peculiar way which only served to make it feel all the more  _right_. Leering up at Sara, Layla gave her ass a sharp swat. Sara, who had thrust herself down yet again on the dildo, froze and shuddered at this impact.  
  
Their mouths broke apart. Sara cried aloud.  
  
"Ohh, yes, I'm so bad! Mmmm, punish me, baby!"  
  
She bucked her hips and looked imploringly into Layla's eyes. Layla met her gaze with a smirk.  
  
_SMACK!_  
  
Obliging her mother, Layla slapped her ass again. Sara moaned and visibly shivered, biting her lip and arching her back. Her buttocks leaped and quaked from the stroke, and they reddened pleasantly. Gasping and hissing, Sara bucked her hips and thrust herself faster on the dildo, nearly dislodging it from between Layla's thighs.  
  
"Shit..." Layla whispered, feeling Sara grab at her tits and viciously knead them. "Do you like it that much, mom? When I spank you?"  
  
"Yes!" Sara cried out, her expression the very picture of female obscenity. "Spank me harder, honey! Mommy's been a bad girl!"  
  
Layla grinned despite a convulsion of her own, a jolt as Sara ground the dildo up against her cunt and flicked at her clit, grabbing and pinching one of her nipples with all the pertinacity of a lobster. Raising her hand for a third time, she smote her mother's backside at the zenith of the woman's rise, and moving quickly she struck it again when Sara's hips had fallen to their lowest point, her cunt fully stuffed by the dildo.  
  
Faster Sara fucked herself, and with the ferocity of her thrusting it was looking likely that the dildo would have been knocked away on one of the next thrusts, if not for Layla grabbing its base with her free hand and holding it firmly between her legs.  
  
_Smack! Smack! SMACK!_  
  
She spanked her mom. She smacked Sara's ass with as much force as she could muster, encouraged by the increasingly gleeful cries, her mother begging to be hit harder and harder and HARDER. Layla remembered all of her past frustrations with her mother, the angry memories of this body's old self, and with much enthusiasm she exercised those feelings until her own palm was hot and stinging.  
  
"You slut!" she said to her mother, "You fucking pig! Look at you. What do you think you're doing? I'm your daughter. You should be  _ashamed_ ❤"  
  
Sara could no longer find the breath to form words, or the clarity of thought. Her lungs were too busy gasping for life as her body was driven beyond endurance by its own long built-up lusts, and her mind was too obsessed with the pleasure in her cunt and the masochistically wonderful pain in her ass. Squealing, she impaled herself harder still on the dildo, and with the last ounce of effort she could muster dropped her head and locked her lips a final time with Layla's.  
  
They kissed. In this kiss Layla felt all of her mother's slowly burning lust, a secret desire and attraction to her own daughter, an obsession of the most erotic kind in the darkest and deepest repressed corners of her mind. It was fascinating and arousing, and in a swooping vertigo of sensation she came all over her mom's fingers, even as Sara herself gave a final, explosive shudder and drenched their thighs and the sheets with her own powerful orgasm.  
  
Then Sara went limp, her eyes closing. The older, more voluptuous woman slipped nigh into somnolence, blissfully exhausted from their intercourse. She slumped contentedly atop her daughter.  
  
For a while—she wasn't sure how long—Layla simply lay there beneath her mother. It was warm and wet and pleasantly snug, and the softness of her mom's body was nothing to sneeze at. Idly she groped Sara, drowsily exploring her curvaceous form.  
  
But presently she heard the buzz of a phone on vibrate, and working off of pure muscle memory one of her hands snapped out and plucked a cellphone from her bedside table. Just as automatically she flicked aside the notice of a text message to bring its contents up. It was ten seconds of reading the text before she realized where it came from, and what it meant. The sender's number was intimately familar to a very specific part of Layla.  
  
Namely the part which had been and still was Sam, because that was  _her_  number,  _Sam's_  number. As for the text itself, all it said was:  
  
_Am I there?_  
  
This gave a confused and confusing impression, yet Sam understood it at once. Quickly and deftly she typed a response.  
  
_Layla's here. I'm Sam._  
  
She sent the message. Its reply came with astounding speed, and the message showed that it had obviously been typed with great haste and no autocorrect.  
  
_Im Lala. Ur Sam rite? Whre?_  
  
She answered.  
  
_Your bedroom._  
  
A pause, and she added the address once it popped into her mind.  
  
A few seconds later, more slowly this time, came the reply.  
  
_Im inside you. Im Sam. R u inside me Layla?_  
  
Layla-nee-Sam thought for a moment before answering. She was starting to understand... well, SOMETHING about this situation. At least, one of her absent worries was now put to rest.  
  
_I am. So you have my body now? Am I ok?_  
  
_Ur fine bby._ A wink emoji followed.  _WAY fine. Nice ass. Nicer dick._  
  
Layla blushed at this, but she grinned and quickly typed.  
  
_Your mom is hot too._  
  
There was a rather longer pause before this was answered.  
  
_Omg. You haven't said that to her have you?_  
  
Layla almost chuckled at this.  
  
_Not in so many words. But I think she gets the idea. Want a pic?_  
  
The reply was one word, and came immediately.  
  
_What?_  
  
Almost it looked like it had been cut off, but Layla took it for a 'yes' and quickly snapped a photograph of Sara's naked body. The older woman's face was nuzzled sleepily between her daughter's plump, freckled breasts, and Layla felt a pleased twinge and slight vaginal warmth at the sight. Then she sent the picture.  
  
There was a very long moment before the next text came.  
  
_What?_  
  
This one clearly WAS prematurely sent, because a little shortly she received more.  
  
_How? No, WHY?_  
  
With a grin, she responded.  
  
_Because she's hot._  
  
A beat.  
  
_Ok, fair. You're a real manslut tho arnt u?_  
  
Layla thought a long moment before answering.  
  
_No. No man. Just a slut. Is that a problem?_  
  
There was a moment before she got her reply from Sam, the Sam who had clearly used to be Layla. It was accompanied by an uncannily well-shot pic of a very familiar dick with a gas pedal and brake in the background, a picture that sent a shiver of excitement down Layla's spine. This was heightened by the text below.  
  
_Hehe. Only if u got a prob sucking this, bby._  
  
Layla grinned. Absentmindedly running fingers through her mom's hair, she typed her final reply, even as she heard the sound of a familiar car engine rumbling up the street.  
  
_I'm willing to negotiate. ;)_  
  
The car stopped in front of the house, and the engine shut off. A moment later, Layla heard a door swing open.  
  
Her heart all aflutter, and her loins burning red hot, Layla set down the phone and counted the seconds from the opening of the house's front door. She knew almost exactly how long it would take her old self to get up here, and indiscreetly she shifted Sara's ass to angle it toward the door.  
  
Layla heard the phone announce a final received message, and she saw a single word on its screen.  
  
_Deal_.  
  
Her bedroom door swung open, and Layla looked on the black haired, handsome, neatly bearded visage of Sam. He grinned at her and her mom, and he slipped out an impressive erection with fairly surprising ease. Layla matched his smile with one of her own, and she did a good job of posing suggestively.  
  
"You wanna talk about fixing this?" she asked him.  
  
He looked at her and laughed.  
  
"What's there to fix?" he replied.  
  
Layla purred. "My thoughts exactly."  
  
She didn't give a damn about whether she ever became a man again, in that moment. All that mattered was the heat of her cunt, the weight of Sara's nearly drowsing form atop her, and the tantalizing throb of her old cock now promising to cram itself up whatever hole it could get at.  
  
Wriggling her hips, Layla-nee-Sam opened her mouth wide and looked pointedly at Sam-nee-Layla's cock.  
  
He knew exactly what she meant.  
  
And he eagerly obliged.  
  
  
  
  
A/N: A commission for the same person who commissioned  _Help! I'm Stuck in a Cam Girl's Body!_  
  
**Updated:**  9-12-16  
  
**TTFN and R &R!**  
  
– — ❤

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A commission for the same person who commissioned 'Help! I'm Stuck in a Cam Girl's Body!'
> 
> Updated: 9-12-16
> 
> TTFN and R&R!
> 
> – — ❤


End file.
